


dive

by metafictionally



Category: Topp Dogg (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2113524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metafictionally/pseuds/metafictionally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not for the first time, Hansol thinks that he would like to take Byungjoo home. It shocks him, how strong the desire is—it rushes through his nerves like wildfire, makes his fingers curl into fists at his sides.</p><p>He won't, but he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sharks in the water

**Author's Note:**

> this one is dedicated to, not blamed on, appy.

Hansol is at lunch when it starts pouring for the first time, in the middle of June. 

They're talking about something inane, something Hansol has only half an ear tuned to—dating scandals, maybe, some idol girl who got a little too drunk and a little too friendly with an idol boy. Or maybe it's an idol scandal in the making, pictures the media has but aren't yet ready to use. Hansol couldn't care less, really, so he's staring out the window, swirling water around in his small metal cup, when—boom—thunder, and the skies open up.

"Christ," says Taeyang, pressing the heel of his hand against his right temple. His watch catches the light from the overheads, and Hansol is both impressed and a little horrified by the subtle display of wealth. It's a nice watch. "We'll be soaked just walking to the car. I hope you brought an umbrella?"

Sehyuk nods, and that's that, as far as they're concerned. Neither of them asks Hansol, but he can't be too surprised by it—they're professionally friendly, but there's a wall between them that Sehyuk and Taeyang have both given up trying to breach.

It's not their fault, though. It's just Hansol.

After lunch, Sehyuk and Taeyang make a run for the company car and leave Hansol standing under the awning just outside the restaurant, checking phantom text messages on his phone. He'd told them he was waiting for a ride from a friend, told them he had plans afterward—it was a lie through and through, but the truth was that Hansol couldn't stand the idea of being trapped in a car with the two of them after being trapped at a lunch table with them. Sometimes, white lies are for the best, he thinks.

"Hey, um—do you need an umbrella?"

The voice comes out of nowhere, and Hansol drags his eyes up from his phone to make eye contact with the boy—man—in front of him. He's shockingly blonde, is the first thing Hansol notices, followed immediately by the guitar case strapped across his back. It looks nearly bigger than the guy is. 

"I mean, I'm heading toward the subway station so if that's the direction you were going, we could walk together. I've got plenty of room under here."

Hansol nods, slowly. "Yeah, that would be nice," he says. "Thanks."

"No problem." The guy smiles, shifts his umbrella over six inches so Hansol can fit underneath it, too. "I'm Kim Byungjoo," he says as they fall into step together, walking through the downpour towards the hazy, blurred shape of the subway station entrance. It's just down the block, but the visibility would have you think it was miles off.

"Kim Hansol," Hansol says. "Isn't your guitar getting soaked?"

"Nah, it's okay! It's waterproof. Good thing, too, I'd need the universe's biggest umbrella to keep this sucker dry too." Byungjoo gestures with a jerk of his head, presumably trying to indicate the case. "Just lucky it was already packed up when the rain started."

Kim Byungjoo talks a mile a minute, Hansol thinks, but his voice is nice. It has a sweet, low cadence to it, surprising given how youthful Byungjoo's face seems.

"Are you a student?" Hansol asks, just because he feels like he should at least make an effort to uphold one half of the conversation. He has a sneaking suspicion that Byungjoo could carry it himself, easily, but—well, Byungjoo had been kind enough to offer his umbrella. The least Hansol can do is chat.

"Do I look like a student?" Byungjoo laughs, his nose scrunching up with it. His ears are a little pink, and it strikes Hansol that really, Byungjoo is very cute. Youthful smiles and full lips and, apparently, a tendency to blush in the tips of his ears. "Nah, I'm a few years out of college now. Just a musician, I guess. I play guitar… as a hobby, and write songs when I can."

"A singer songwriter, then," Hansol says. In his line of work, those are a dime a dozen.

But Byungjoo shakes his head, the color of his ears deepening. "No, I just serve ice cream at a place near the university," he says. The correction seems reluctant. "Like I said, the guitar is just a hobby. And anyway, the songs I write are pretty crappy."

It doesn't take a genius to see that Byungjoo wishes that weren't the case.

"Well, are you any good?" Hansol asks. He can't help a smile, amused and, he hopes, not at all pitying. "Who knows, maybe sometime soon you could wait tables as a hobby and play guitar as your job."

Byungjoo laughs, and all traces of quietude vanish from his expression. "Wouldn't that be something," he says. "If you happen to have an in with a producer, I'll happily give you my number."

Hansol laughs. If only Byungjoo knew.

"Here's the station," Byungjoo says, gesturing toward the staircase that leads down into the subway. Hansol hadn't even realized how close they were, and he's struck with a sudden but brief flash of something almost like regret. In another lifetime, maybe, Byungjoo seems like someone Hansol would like to know. 

"Better make sure you bring your umbrella when you go out, at least for the next couple months." He's teasing Hansol, isn't he? Is this what teasing feels like? It's been a while since Hansol felt something so simple. "Next time there might not be handsome strangers to offer you theirs, you know."

"What a pity," Hansol says, smiling. "I appreciate it, Byungjoo-ssi. Good luck, with the songwriting—it can be rough but once the words come, they'll come. "

For a moment Byungjoo pauses, his eyes scanning Hansol's face, and then he smiles. "Thanks," he says. "See you around, maybe." It sounds a little bit like a question—a little bit like hope—but Hansol doesn't let himself rise to the bait. Byungjoo is cute, but Hansol doesn't have time for this.

"Maybe," Hansol says, even though he doubts it, and waits until Byungjoo's halfway down the block before he turns and heads underground.

 

Sohee flops down into one of the cushioned leather chairs in Hansol's studio and says, "So you're still trying to avoid being friends with Taeyang and Sehyuk oppadeul?"

How word could possibly have made it to Sohee so quickly, Hansol will never know—the inner workings of the company are a well-oiled machine that Hansol has never bothered to learn to operate. It isn't that gossip bores him, but he hears enough of it without even trying that _learning_ to try seems like more effort than it's worth.

"Who says I'm trying to avoid being friends with them?" Hansol asks. He has Sohee's upcoming single playing on low volume, her voice just loud enough to be heard as a thread woven through their conversation.

Sohee's voice in real life is much sweeter than her voice when she sings—she sings in her nose, Hansol has been telling her for years, has a tendency to go sharp on the high notes she can't quite hit yet. Maybe that's why this song sounds so lifeless, to him. Her songs have been sounding lifeless to him for a while. 

"Taeyang oppa says so," Sohee says. "He says you all went out to lunch on Monday and that talking to you was like talking to a really skilled ventriloquist's doll." She sits up straighter and puts on her best impression of Taeyang: "'He looked like Hansol, he sounded like Hansol, but there was nothing in his eyes that seemed like he at all wanted to be there.'" She slumps back down, crosses her legs at the knee. Perfectly manicured, bright red fingernails tap out a meaningless rhythm on the armrest of the chair. "You should be nicer to him. He likes you a lot, you know."

For a moment, just to be obnoxious, Hansol pushes up the bass track until it overwhelms the tail end of Sohee's sentence. When he pulls it back, she's just looking at him, unimpressed.

"I'm gonna want you to re-record this tomorrow morning," Hansol says. "At least, the bridge part. You're straining for the high notes and it's obvious in the track."

Sohee sighs in exasperation. "If you hate it so much here, nobody has you chained to this computer," she says. There's no acid in her voice, but there is an edge to it that makes Hansol wince internally. "You could leave. Go do something you like more than making me sing bridge runs over and over until your ears bleed and my voice gives out."

This, Hansol remembers. When they had been together, when Hansol had still been desperately in love with her, Sohee had always been his rock. She, unlike everyone else, it seemed, had never expected him to attain the unattainable.

"And anyway, what's wrong with the bridge?" Sohee finally asks, when the silence has stretched on long enough as to be uncomfortable. "It sounds fine to me. Even Hojoon oppa said it was fine."

"Hojoon hyung isn't paid to tell you if it doesn't," Hansol points out. "It sounds…"

Sohee waits.

"Empty," Hansol finally says. "It sounds empty. It sounds like you don't give a shit what you're singing about."

From the arch of Sohee's eyebrow Hansol can tell she's stung by the comment. "I don't give a shit what I'm singing about," she says. "I didn't write it. I'm singing someone else's borrowed emotions, and I can only fake it so well."

That, too, is purposeful, returning the hurt twofold. _I can only fake it for so long._ That's what Sohee had said to him the night they'd broken up, when Hansol had come home from the studio drunk at four in the morning and found her sitting in the living room with a bag packed. She had been waiting, and that had been her parting blow.

"Go home, Sohee," Hansol says in the here and now. "Go home and write me a song you care about. Write me something you can sing and sound like you mean it, okay?"

With another sigh—the soundtrack of Hansol and Sohee's studio time—Sohee pushes herself up out of the chair and pulls her sweatshirt tighter around herself. When they were together, Sohee had always complained about how cold he kept the studio, and Hansol had always refused to turn the temperature up. The cold kept her awake, he said. Now, Sohee doesn't complain about it anymore, but she always brings an extra layer when she comes to record.

"Fine," Sohee says. "Try to get some rest, at least."

Just like her. Hansol nods. "I'll try," he says, like always, and when he hears the click of the door closing, he presses his face into his hands and lets fireworks burst behind his eye sockets. 

 

Saturday, at eight thirty in the evening, Hansol slides into a barstool and catches sight of a familiar face. 

Between the guitar playing, song writing and ice-cream serving, Byungjoo had apparently forgotten to mention having a gig playing acoustic cover songs to the melancholic early-evening crowd at the bar Hansol stops in, sometimes, on his way home after particularly rough days. He wouldn't call himself a regular, so it doesn't surprise him that he didn't know—but in some ways Byungjoo's presence does surprise him, if only because he hadn't seemed the type to want to sit surrounded by half-drunk losers and croon slow jams into a scratchy microphone. 

It's only when the bartender taps his knuckles on the counter that Hansol realizes he's been staring, and he flushes a little as he turns back to order whiskey on the rocks. 

"You like the talent?" Dongsung asks, pulling out a clean glass and filling it with ice. "He's been playing weekends here for the last few weeks. It's been a while since I've seen you around, stranger."

Hansol shrugs. It isn't that he likes the talent, exactly, but he knows Dongsung, so he knows that trying to justify it would only make Dongsung tease him harder. "I've been busy," he says. "Sohee's got a new single coming up, and you know how they are about perfection."

Dongsung doesn't know, but he nods like he does, and pours Hansol an extra half a finger of whiskey before pushing the glass over. "Well, don't work too hard," he says. "I wouldn't know who to call when I start missing you too bad, you know." 

He winks and heads down the bar to attend to another customer, so Hansol spins around in his stool to watch Byungjoo up on stage. He's a good singer, Hansol thinks, if a little unpolished, his voice rough, but comfortable—like the familiar rub of a well-loved sweater, or the scratch of pencil against a fresh page. Hansol likes it. His guitar playing is even better, fingers quick and light against strings—he plays without a pick, Hansol notices. Thinks about his fingers, calloused, thinks about whether the nails of his right hand are longer than the left. Wonders why he's thinking about it at all.

Byungjoo looks up and their gazes connect across the bar, and Hansol is sure he doesn't imagine the smile that tugs at one corner of Byungjoo's lips, inappropriate for the sad, sweet song he's singing.

By the time Byungjoo's set ends, Hansol is a little tipsy, his tie loosened as his skin starts to heat up. The bar has emptied a little, if only for the patrons leaving in search of greener pastures—this bar has always been a little like a waystation for people on their way somewhere else, but that's why Hansol likes it. He fits in, here.

"Hey," Byungjoo says, sliding into the stool next to Hansol. His guitar is packed away, leaning against the bar next to him. "I had a feeling I'd run into you again, somewhere."

Dongsung, shamelessly eavesdropping, raises a curious eyebrow at Hansol, and Hansol gives him his best innocent look in return. "You didn't mention that you were a psychic," he says to Byungjoo, grinning. "Along with being a guitar player, song writer and ice-cream scooper. And, apparently, bar musician."

Byungjoo shrugs a little, grinning sheepishly. He seems pleased that Hansol remembers all that, although Hansol can't quite figure out why. "This is kind of a new thing," he says. "Only my third gig."

"You were good," Hansol says. He means it, too, rarely gives compliments he doesn't believe wholeheartedly, although Byungjoo has no reason to know that, yet. "You're a really good guitar player, but your voice is really nice too." He reaches out, palm up. "Give me your hand?"

Maybe he's a little drunker than he thought.

"My hand?" Byungjoo blinks, then lifts his right hand. "This one?"

"Yeah." Hansol takes hold, turning it over so he can look at Byungjoo's fingernails. "I was right," he murmurs, only half aware he's saying it aloud.

"About..?"

"You don't play with a pick," Hansol says, letting go of Byungjoo's fingers. He has nice hands, slim, musician's fingers. "I was wondering if your fingernails would be longer, on that hand."

Byungjoo looks down at his own hand, fingers curling into a loose fist like he isn't quite sure what to do with it. "You know a lot about music," he says with a shy laugh. "Are you a musician? I just realized I never asked what you do."

"I didn't say," Hansol says. He gestures to Dongsung, indicates that he should pour a drink for Byungjoo too. 

"Our Hansollie doesn't like to show off what a big shot he is," Dongsung says, unsuccessfully biting back a grin as he pours another glass. "I had to get him almost dead drunk before he let it slip, and that was only after he'd been coming here for about a year."

Hansol gives Dongsung a look—not in jest, this time, but out of a genuine desire for Dongsung to shut his mouth. The last thing Hansol wants is Byungjoo to know what he does for a living—half because it's risky to be a producer in front of a hopeful musician, and half because the inevitable reaction ("Wow, that's amazing! I bet you love it!") always makes Hansol feel a little sick inside.

Fortunately, Dongsung—for all his loud mouth and biting humor—isn't an idiot, so he doesn't elaborate, just goes back to cleaning the bar once he's passed the glass over to Byungjoo. They sit in silence for a moment, and then Byungjoo says, "So you're really not going to tell me what you do?"

Hansol laughs. "No, it's boring and stressful and not good conversation over drinks," he says, "and besides, I'd rather hear about you."

It's not fair, Hansol knows. He's flirting because he knows that it will make Byungjoo stop asking about his job, and because he can read exactly the way Byungjoo responds to it—the pleasure in his features, the way his body shifts, leaning into Hansol like a sunflower toward the sun. If Hansol were another man, he would want to take Byungjoo home, to wrap his arms around that slim waist and find out what his mouth tastes like under the tang of whiskey clinging to his lips. Hansol does want that, but he knows he won't do it. 

Some doors, he thinks, are best left unopened, and Hansol knows that Sohee has left him bruised in places Hansol himself hasn't even discovered yet.

But still, he smiles at Byungjoo, lets his eyes trace along the curve of Byungjoo's cheek and his jawline, over the lush fullness of his lips. He really is pretty—he could make it, probably, if Hansol tried to turn him into an idol. Hansol doesn't want to turn him into an idol, though. There's something about Byungjoo that makes the very idea sit poorly.

"What about me?" Byungjoo asks. He brings the glass to his lips and lets it linger there a moment as he takes a sip. It's transparent, what he's doing—flirting right back, as openly as Hansol is flirting with him.

"Mm, tell me about your music," Hansol says. He props an elbow on the bar and props his head in his hand, watching Byungjoo watch him. "How long you've played guitar. What you write songs about. When you decided you wanted to be a singer."

With a shy smile, Byungjoo starts talking, and he doesn't stop until the bar is nearly empty and both of their glasses are more ice melt than whiskey. He tells Hansol about his older cousin who had taught him to play guitar when he was still so young that his arms couldn't reach around the body of it, about how he'd kept playing after his cousin moved to America because it made Byungjoo feel like they were still close. The songwriting had come after, when Byungjoo had gotten tired of singing melodies written for someone else's pain. He still wasn't very good at it, found the words elusive and clunky at times, but he kept trying and just didn't show anyone the results. 

He asks how Hansol knew he wanted to be a singer.

"You light up when you talk about music," Hansol says. He's mostly sober now, the whiskey just a dull throb behind his eyes. He'll need to drink a bottle of water before bed, or he'll have a headache tomorrow. "You don't light up when you talk about scooping ice cream. It wasn't hard to figure out."

More than anything, Hansol envies Byungjoo his openness, his ability to share so much with so perfect a stranger. How transparent he is when he talks about the things he loves. Hansol doesn't think he could ever be so genuine.

Byungjoo flushes pink and grins, like it's a compliment. "I really love music," he says. "I wish I had the chance to make something out of it."

Hansol slides his card across the bar towards Dongsung to pay their tab. "Who knows?" he says. "Maybe someday you will."

Outside, the air is stiflingly hot, still humid even in the gathering evening. Hansol hates it. It makes his shirtsleeves stick to his skin, even though he's rolled them up and loosened his tie—Dongsung always says that's how he can tell Hansol is tipsy, when he loosens his tie. He feels a little tipsy still, even though the alcohol has mostly worked its way through his system now. Maybe it's just because the moment feels so precarious, Byungjoo looking at him and Hansol looking back, the air between them sparking with uncertainties.

Not for the first time, Hansol thinks that he would like to take Byungjoo home. It shocks him, how strong the desire is—it rushes through his nerves like wildfire, makes his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

He won't, but he wants to.

"I should go," Hansol says. His voice sounds heavy and strange. "Work tomorrow, you know."

"Me too," Byungjoo says, but Hansol can see the glint of disappointment in his gaze. "I have the early shift even though no one ever buys ice cream before noon." He hikes his guitar a little higher on his shoulder and gives Hansol a grin. His lips are wet, and Hansol knows that if he kissed Byungjoo right now, he would taste like whiskey.

"Maybe I'll see you around." It's Hansol who says it first this time. Byungjoo looks surprised, but it melts quickly into an expression of pleasure so uncomplicated that it makes Hansol want to curl his fingers in Byungjoo's too-long hair and mouth kisses against his pulse. 

Another thing he doesn't do.

"Yeah," Byungjoo agrees. "Third time's the charm, right?"

And before Hansol has a chance to ask what that means, Byungjoo is gone, heading up the street. He passes through the spill of a streetlight and then disappears, leaving Hansol looking after him and wondering why, exactly, this feels like a riptide.

 

He finishes Sohee's song at four in the morning, after a two and a half day stint without sleep, with Sangwon spinning circles in the chair next to him. Hansol works, and Sangwon spins circles—that's how their relationship is, but somehow Sangwon more than anything is the only thing that keeps him sane sometimes.

"It sounds good, hyung," Sangwon says. He's slumped so far down in his chair that Hansol wonders at how he hasn't fallen out of it yet. "Probably the best one yet."

Hansol and Sohee have been working together for almost three years, so Hansol doubts that's true, but he appreciates the compliment for what it is. Sangwon isn't the type to say that kind of thing if he doesn't mean it. "It still feels like it's missing something," Hansol says, but it's a resigned kind of protest, the kind that knows he'll never resolve this particular conundrum. "It's good, though. It'll do."

"Yeah, do well on the charts." Sangwon pokes him with the capped end of a pen, gently, right above his kneecap. "You're so hard to please."

With one last, reluctant click, Hansol sends the final master off in an email and leans back. "I'm not that hard to please," he argues weakly, and he doesn't need to look at Sangwon to feel the skeptical raised eyebrow. "I just… have high standards."

"That's the same thing." 

It is, isn't it? Hansol sighs. "Okay, I concede," he says, rubbing at his eyes. They burn when they're closed. They burn when they're open, too, but not as badly. "But only because I think this is my fiftieth consecutive hour without sleep."

Sangwon laughs. "I'll take victories where I can get them," he says. "By the way—Sohee told me you told her to write. She seemed ticked."

"I told her she sounded like she didn't give a shit what she was singing about," Hansol says. "It wasn't my finest moment."

Sohee had always commented that for someone who hated his job so much, Hansol sure was married to it. He supposes that she was right, although maybe she hadn't understood exactly why: Hansol spends so much time trying for perfection because that is the only way he knows how to accept how far he's strayed away from what had originally seemed to be a straight, clear path. 

"Huh," Sangwon says. "Hyung, sometimes you're kind of an ass."

He says it mildly, but Hansol still winces, fighting back the urge to be instantly defensive. It had been a cruel thing to say, he knew, especially to Sohee. "Yeah," he agrees after a moment. "I just… she sounds so much better when she really feels it. She's never been good at faking somebody else's emotions."

Sohee's voice has always been incredible. It had been Hansol, years ago, who had cast the decisive vote on making something out of her—he had known, even then, even when Sohee was rough around the edges, that she could be magnificent. And she was, really. Hansol just wanted her to be more.

"Go a little easy on her," Sangwon says. He looks at Hansol with something soft in his eyes, something Hansol is unaccustomed to. "She'll never tell you, but it's hurting her too."

Hansol isn't ready for this.

He puts his hands over his face again and says, "Go home, Sangwon-ah. If anyone tries to call me, tell them I'm in a coma for the next twenty-four hours, at least."

Sensing, perhaps, that the conversation is over, Sangwon nods and straightens up. He stretches out and sighs, and Hansol can tell there's something there at the tip of his tongue—but instead he just nods again and leaves, letting the door click closed behind him.

It's five thirty by the time Hansol's home, five forty by the time he faceplants into his pillow, but it still takes him ages to fall asleep.


	2. a single note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byungjoo is beautiful and Hansol is not ready for this. He should have left this door tightly shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so it turned out to be 3 chapters and not 2, so I moved the last part of chapter 1 to the beginning of chapter 2 for balance's sake. if you already read that part please feel free to scroll!

The third time, Hansol is on his way through Hongdae when he hears a familiar voice, scratchy through cheap amplifier fabric but nonetheless distinctive. Byungjoo, and some friends, are sitting on the stairs outside the chicken kalbi restaurant—Byungjoo is on guitar, and the other two are on djembe and vocals. Byungjoo has backup, Hansol thinks, but his is the voice that cuts clear through the night and draws Hansol into the small crowd surrounding them. 

"They're pretty good," he hears a girl say, low in confidence to her friend.

"And cute," her friend agrees.

Hansol, privately, feels the same. They are good. Enthusiastic, a little unpolished, but charming to listen to and even more charming to watch. Byungjoo smiles like this is the only thing he's ever wanted to do with his life. 

There was a time when Hansol knew that feeling, too.

He waits in the back of the crowd, arms crossed, for twenty minutes just listening to them sing before Byungjoo's gaze locks onto his. A spark of something like electricity passes between them. Hansol doesn't know what Byungjoo sees in his eyes, but whatever it is, it's enough to make Byungjoo smile—not the devil-may-care smile Hansol has come to know, but something a little darker, a little knowing. Like he can tell, even before Hansol is sure of it himself, exactly how this is going to end.

When the set ends, the crowd disperses and Byungjoo comes to stand in front of Hansol, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Well, well," he says, teeth digging into his lower lip to bite back a grin. "I guess the third time really is the charm."

"You sound good together," Hansol says, gesturing with his chin to indicate Byungjoo's friends. "You've been playing together for a long time, huh?"

"Almost a year now," Byungjoo says. "Jiho, and Sanggyun. We went to school together."

"You have good chemistry," Hansol says. _We have good chemistry._

With a noncommittal sound, Byungjoo turns back to regard the two briefly—they're fighting over a roll of cord, all smiles—and then says, "Did you come find me in Hongdae so you could talk about music some more, then?"

Hansol wishes he could say yes, that when he'd spotted Byungjoo sitting there his intentions had been pure. That he'd just wanted to talk to Byungjoo about music, watch his hands pluck melodies out of guitar strings. That would make things so much simpler, wouldn't it? Hansol still knows that this door is best left closed, but he can already tell that he isn't going to leave it that way.

"No," he says. "Get your things?"

The current that runs through Byungjoo's body at that is all but visible, and he gives Hansol an inscrutable look for a long moment before he heads back to get his guitar case. A few words are spoken between him and his friends—Jiho and Sanggyun, Hansol commits the names to memory—and one of them turns to look long and hard at Hansol. Maybe trying to gauge how likely Byungjoo is to turn up in a gutter somewhere, but Hansol isn't the murdering type. 

It feels like a century, but it's only a minute before Byungjoo is back, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and says, "Let's go."

 

Byungjoo kisses him before they've even made it to the door. He crowds Hansol up against the wall of the staircase, cups his jaw and kisses him like he means it, like he's been waiting for this since he saw Hansol standing in the doorway of that restaurant. Maybe he has. In some ways it feels like Hansol has, too, the way his body aches, arches into Byungjoo and grasps at his hips, his waist. Byungjoo is gentle, but it still feels like no force in this world could pull Hansol away from this spot, right now.

He's a good kisser, Hansol thinks. Sure, but not demanding—he coaxes Hansol's lips to part, makes a soft sound into Hansol's mouth when they do. It's enough to make Hansol's head spin, frozen by how much he _wants_ , how desperately he wants to have Byungjoo make that noise again.

"We should go inside," Hansol finally says, pulling away just enough to speak the words in a near-whisper against Byungjoo's mouth. This isn't how he was expecting this to go.

"Or you could keep kissing me," Byungjoo suggests, tugging at the collar of Hansol's shirt. 

Hansol laughs, and relents enough to press another lingering kiss against Byungjoo's mouth. "I could keep kissing you as soon as we're inside," he says, his hands slipping up inside the back of Byungjoo's t-shirt to press against soft, warm skin. Byungjoo is thin, but there's strength to him. Hansol likes it very much. "I want to touch parts of you I don't want my neighbors seeing."

His words make Byungjoo shiver, and he nods slightly before pulling away. Eyes dark, but lips swollen and pink with kissing—he looks fucking delicious, and it's with some force of will than Hansol drags his gaze away. 

The lock doesn't stick today, thank God, so it's only a moment before Hansol pulls Byungjoo into his apartment and closes the door behind them. It occurs to him, belatedly, that his apartment is a bit of a disaster, with notebooks and staff paper strewn everywhere, crumpled paper balls decorating the living room floor where Hansol had been working the night before. It's not the kind of mess he'd apologize for, though, so he doesn't say anything at all, just slips out of his shoes and waits for Byungjoo to do the same before Hansol reaches out to pull him into another kiss.

This time, Hansol knows what he wants. 

He puts his hands at Byungjoo's waist and kisses him, licks into Byungjoo's mouth as he does, tongue tracing the sensitive places just behind Byungjoo's teeth. It earns him a noise that sounds as near a whimper as Hansol has ever heard, and it makes him _ache_ , a sharp tug of want low in the pit of his belly. He feels like he's on fucking fire, half-hard, the back of his neck prickling with goosebumps every time Byungjoo's fingers skim the skin just above his waistband. 

"You're a tease," he bites out, the fourth time Byungjoo traces his finger down the line of hair heading south from Hansol's navel. "I'm getting myself involved with an absolute harlot, aren't I?"

Byungjoo laughs, even though Hansol is still nipping at his lower lip, and says, "Are you regretting it?"

"God, no," Hansol breathes, and pushes Byungjoo back onto the mattress.

The space between them clothed and them unclothed is breathlessly short, or at least it feels like it is. Hansol would like the time to explore every inch of Byungjoo's skin exposed, but somehow it feels like only heartbeats before Byungjoo is naked, squirming as Hansol kisses a wet trail down his chest. "Speaking of teases," Byungjoo says—Hansol can tell he's trying to sound grumpy, but he really just sounds turned on. Fine with Hansol.

Still, he wants Byungjoo too badly to drag it out too long. 

He presses Byungjoo down onto the mattress, one hand on his shoulder, and slides a finger into him easy as anything. Hansol relishes the way Byungjoo shudders for it, his knees falling that little bit more apart, encouraging—welcoming. Hansol has never wanted for confidence when it comes to sex, exactly, but it's good to have a lover whose body speaks each of his reactions as loudly as he might with words.

Leaning down, Hansol mouths kisses along the underside of Byungjoo's cock. Not enough to give him what he wants—which is stimulation, Hansol knows, _real_ stimulation more than just the frustrating fullness of fingers inside him—but enough to tease him just a little big higher.

"Oh, God," Byungjoo all but gasps, shivering, his cock twitching under Hansol's mouth. Hansol resists the urge to make a bad joke. 

He waits until Byungjoo is trembling, fingers curled in the cotton of Hansol's sheets, before he adds a second finger slowly and with a great deal of care. "I'm not going to break," Byungjoo protests, squirming a little, but Hansol just shakes his head and leans with one hand on Byungjoo's hip to keep him from moving too much. 

"I know," he says.

By the time Hansol is working three fingers into Byungjoo, his palm flat and firm against Byungjoo's pelvis, the way Byungjoo reacts is almost too much for him to take. He's so hard it aches, his cock heavy between his thighs, and Byungjoo is making the sweetest near-whimper sounds every time Hansol presses his fingers deeper. The whimpers are intoxicating, but they have nothing on the way Byungjoo groans when Hansol brushes his fingertips over Byungjoo's prostate—so loud his neighbors can probably hear it, wanting and desperate and shockingly low-pitched for how sweet Byungjoo's voice is, normally. It makes Hansol want to do nothing but this, just finger Byungjoo until he comes all over himself—but he has other plans, for tonight.

"You could get me off like this," Byungjoo manages, his words an echo of Hansol's own thoughts.

"Another time," Hansol says with a laugh, drawing his fingers out and wiping them unceremoniously on the sheets. "Not tonight."

He doesn't think about how easily he'd just promised a repeat, and instead reaches for a condom.

Byungjoo had been tight around three fingers, but that's nothing on how it feels when Hansol gets Byungjoo on his hands and knees and slides into him, slow, relishing every inch as he leans forward and pushes into Byungjoo's body. Byungjoo has a great ass, Hansol thinks, punch-drunk and hazy as he runs his hands all over every inch of Byungjoo's skin that he can reach. It's a pleasure to see it from this angle, Byungjoo's back arched, thighs trembling as Hansol hits home and stays there. 

"Please," Byungjoo gasps, muffled by the pillow he's got his arms wrapped around. His face is half-buried in some attempt to stifle the sounds he keeps making every time Hansol moves even a fraction of an inch. "Please, don't just—just fuck me, _fuck_ , Hansol, don't be like this to me right now—"

It's hard for Hansol to say no, so he doesn't. He takes Byungjoo by the hips and fucks him, until Byungjoo is nearly shouting and it takes all the self-control that Hansol has ever had not to just come from the sound of it. He fucks Byungjoo until they're both slick with sweat, hair sticking to the backs of their necks and hands slipping on skin, until Byungjoo's moans aren't even words anymore, just nonsense he's panting into the pillow.

Through it, Hansol catches some words—"please" and "there" and "don't stop"—and he's too far gone to tease, so he listens. Hansol puts one hand in the sway of Byungjoo's lower back and fucks him slow and deep, his other hand curled around the sharp points of Byungjoo's hip, until Byungjoo gasps out, "I'm gonna come—" and then his whole body goes taut with it. 

Hansol watches the ripple of pleasure travel down Byungjoo's spine and that's all it takes for him to lose it, too, bent over with both arms on either side of Byungjoo, panting obscenities into his shoulderblades.

Afterward, through the fog of his orgasm, Hansol rolls over onto his side and grabs for the wet tissues he keeps in the top drawer of his bedside table. He'd put them there for easier cleanup when he jerks off, but it still makes him blush when Byungjoo laughs and mumbles, "Well, don't you come prepared."

"Former Boy Scount," Hansol replies, ears hot, and drops the tissue on Byungjoo's face.

 

Hansol wakes with his face pressed into the pillow, warm and comfortable and sore in the thighs—a pleasant kind of soreness that he hasn't felt in a long time. The curtains are still drawn, but the light comes through them anyway, giving the room a bluish cast, like being lit through a well-worn sweater. He's naked, still, and Hansol takes a moment to relish in that, stretching out catlike and rolling over onto his back. He probably has pillow creases pressed into his cheek. 

Byungjoo is sitting on the floor just below the window, wearing his underwear and a t-shirt and nothing else, a notebook spread open over his knee. It isn't one of Hansol's, so Hansol can only assume that Byungjoo brought it with him, in his things last night.

He's writing.

It takes a moment for that to sink in. Hansol watches Byungjoo's pencil move across the page and thinks about the frustration in his eyes, although not in his voice, when he'd told Hansol about how much he struggled with writing. He thinks about watching Byungjoo perform on that bar stage and how ill-suited he'd seemed to singing other people's songs. Hansol thinks about, the first time they'd met, how he had told Byungjoo that _when the words come, they'll come._

He thinks, _this was a bad idea._

Now, in the brighter light of day, Hansol feels the prickling uncertainty of doubt crawling in around him, making his skin feel ill-fitting, too tight in places. Byungjoo had been an incredible lover, everything Hansol had wanted when he brought Byungjoo home with him. But now, in the morning, more than anything Hansol wants to mouth kisses to the knob at the top of his spine and ask him what he's writing, whether he likes it. He wants to touch the pads of his thumbs to the still-sleepy corners of Byungjoo's eyes and see him smile at Hansol the way he's smiling at his notebook, right now.

Byungjoo is beautiful and Hansol is not ready for this. He should have left this door tightly shut.

He's so wrapped up in his thoughts that it takes a moment to process when Byungjoo's pencil stops moving and Byungjoo looks up at him, a soft smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Good morning," Byungjoo says, his voice rough with sleep—with sex?—and Hansol feels a shiver climb down his spine even as his insides recoil from it.

"Morning," Hansol says. He knows his voice is too brusque, too sharp for these blurred edges and muted morning colors, a knife's edge against warm butter. But he can't stop himself. 

If there's a falter to Byungjoo's smile, he hides it well. "I hope you don't mind I borrowed a pencil," he says, waving the one in his hand. "I guess I left mine with Sanggyun and Jiho."

"It's fine." 

Hansol should say more. _How did you sleep?_ or _Are you sore?_ or _Would you like some coffee?_ Any one of those would be fine, as a question to ask the man you wake up next to, but for some reason they all stick on Hansol's tongue, every one of them. Instead he clears his throat and says, "I should take a shower. I think I have to go in to—work today."

This time, Byungjoo can't quite hide the flinch of disappointment in his expression, although he hides it like a champion with a glance down at his notebook. "Sure," he agrees easily, with a nod. "You really are a big shot, huh? Work even on a Saturday."

He says it without expectation of an answer, so Hansol doesn't give him one. He climbs out of bed, feeling oddly self-conscious about his nakedness in a way he hasn't been since college, and grabs a clean pair of boxers on the way to the bathroom.

By the time he emerges, Hansol feels like a human again, the crippling self-doubt washed away by a torrent of nearly-too-hot water and shampoo suds. He doesn't really have to go to work today, so maybe he should ask Byungjoo to stay—to have breakfast at least, maybe show him the lyrics he's writing. If Byungjoo is willing. He thinks about it as he pulls his underwear on and drapes his towel over his head, imagines sitting knee-to-knee at the table with Byungjoo and watching him write. It could be nice. 

But the apartment is silent when Hansol leaves the bathroom. Not the silence of focus but the silence of emptiness, Byungjoo's absence conspicuous as it replaces his presence in Hansol's awareness. His pencil is neatly placed back in his pencil cup, and Byungjoo's things are no longer by the front door—Hansol sticks his head into the living room to check. 

"Fuck," Hansol says aloud, then feels foolish.

The only trace that Byungjoo was ever in his apartment is the fact that both pillows on the bed are askew, when Hansol only sleeps on the right side of the bed. (That, and the spent condom in the trash can next to the desk.) Hansol looks at the spot that he knows Byungjoo had occupied, legs crossed on his cream-colored rug, and says, again, "Fuck."

 

It isn't until two days later that Hansol finds the new entry programmed into his phone: A number, and the name _Call me when you're ready._


	3. drowning or flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's stupid, really, how much time Hansol spends thinking about Byungjoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED A THING!!!

Hansol doesn't call.

 

Halfway through July, Sohee comes into the studio and drops a CD on Hansol's desk, right in front of his computer, where he's working on Hyosang's upcoming mini. Sangwon has been in and out of the recording booth for the last two weeks, bending to Hansol's every whim with the same thin-lipped patience that he has for everyone who he finds tiresome—a list on which Hansol frequently finds himself at the top. Hyosang is tired. Sangwon is tired. Hansol is tired and at his wits end with the both of them, so Sohee—however troubling he finds the uncertainty in her expression—is a welcome break.

At least, for a moment. "What's this?" he asks, picking up the jewel case and turning it over. "A mixtape?"

"No," Sohee says. That's how Hansol can tell she's serious—normally, a joke that bad would earn him at least a slap on the shoulder. "It's song you told me to write."

Hansol had almost forgotten that. How, just before they'd finished recording her single, he had told Sohee to write him a song she cared about. It had slipped his mind, between work and obligations and Hyosang and Sangwon (and Byungjoo, Hansol doesn't think). "Oh," Hansol says, nodding. He sets the jewel case back down on the desk. "Sing it for me."

Sohee looks at him, unimpressed. "You told me to write you a song," she says. "I wrote you a fucking song, so why do I need to sing it for you too?"

"The point was to hear you sing like you care," Hansol reminds her, although he tries to be gentle, remembering the hurt in her expression during that argument all those weeks ago. "It's not the same to hear your voice recorded, and you know I love you a cappella."

Playing to Sohee's ego has never worked, though, so Hansol shouldn't be too surprised when she shakes her head and pulls her sweatshirt in close around her. Somehow, though, he is. He isn't used to her saying no. "I didn't write it for Producer Hansol," Sohee says. Her voice is quiet, but there's an edge of steel to it, sharp and shining. "I wrote it for Just Hansol. I didn't even owe you that much." 

She's right, of course. 

"Yeah," Hansol agrees, setting the jewel case down again. "Yeah, you're right."

The surprise on Sohee's face at the ease with which he relents stings a little, enough that Hansol feels like he needs to justify it. It's hard, though—to explain that he'd expected her to say yes simply because she always has, because Sohee had always been so good at pretending that nothing had ever been different. "You don't owe me that much," Hansol finally says, looking at his keyboard instead of at her. "But I owe you a lot. I have owed you a lot and I haven't always—for the most part, I haven't made good on it, I think."

In most ways, Hansol knows, the breakup had been his fault. Even without meaning to, he had been cruel to her, callous and cold and she had put up with it much longer than she should have. Hansol had poured his everything into his work, and had been surprised, then, when he was left empty—and it had been Sohee who suffered most for that emptiness. Months of Hansol letting himself into the apartment at four in the morning and falling asleep on the couch instead of in bed with her; months of Hansol, too busy for sex, too busy for romance. He'd forgotten their anniversary, and Sohee hadn't said anything then, but the next week she had left him.

Sohee is looking at him, and Hansol finally lifts his gaze to look back. "Listen to it at home," she finally says. There's something different in her voice, something soft. "A lot of things between us got sacrificed to this studio, Hansol. I don't want this to be another."

She doesn't wait for him to answer—Hansol doesn't try. 

 

At home, later that night, Hansol pours himself a glass of scotch on the rocks and puts Sohee's disc in his laptop.

It's just the one track, and there isn't much to it. Just her voice and the sound of her keeping rhythm against the tabletop, her fingertips hitting the wood—a habit of hers, when she doesn't trust herself to keep time without it. Sohee the human metronome, and it had driven Hansol insane for their first month of work together, before he'd realized that it made her rhythmically better than anyone he'd ever worked with before.

It's not a love song. Not a hate song, either, which Hansol had halfway been expecting, but it is a plea—Sohee's voice plaintive, almost begging through the speakers. Asking for forgiveness, and for mercy, for Hansol to give back control of the parts of her that Sohee had let him rule. A privilege that Hansol no longer has, after the wrong he'd done her. This land is mine, she says. You have no power here, not anymore.

It's good. Hansol was right about that, at least—Sohee's voice, when she cares, is breathtaking.

He plays it through three times, until nothing is left in his glass but watered-down whiskey and melting ice cubes, and then Hansol texts her. 

_I listened._

Her response comes not thirty seconds later. It's three in the morning. Hansol wonders if she was waiting for this.

_And?_

Hansol starts and erases about nine messages: _It's good_ and _Your voice is lovely_ and _I hope my memory won't be a bruise that never heals._ Too bland, or too dramatic. Too much like something a producer says to his protégé, when this is anything but Sohee in the studio, to Hansol.

_I loved you very much_ , he finally says. _I'm sorry that I made you doubt that._

A long pause.

_you can love someone very much and still be all wrong for them_ , Sohee replies. _at least we learned that before it was too late._

They had talked, a few times, about getting married. Back when things were still good, before Hansol had started to treat Sohee as a given instead of a treasure. 

Hansol's phone buzzes again. _you were really good to me, before you weren't. the next person you fall for, don't make the same mistake again._

It's good advice. Hansol wishes he could ignore the persistent thought that floats at the back of his mind, the idea that he may have already made that mistake, running scared from something with so much potential to be so good. Something that had been good, if only for a night. It's stupid, really, how much time Hansol spends thinking about Byungjoo, how many times a day he catches himself daydreaming about the bow in the top of Byungjoo's lush upper lip, about the dimples at the base of his spine and the curve of his back, skin stretched over the delicate framework of his bones.

More than that, though, the way he had made Hansol laugh, the way he had made Hansol ask questions to which he found himself really wanting to know the answers. The way he had looked illuminated by the midday sun streaming in through Hansol's curtains, lacquered, embossed in liquid gold.

"Fuck," Hansol groans aloud, and texts back, _I'm sorry._

Sohee says, _I forgive you_ , and doesn't reply again. 

 

In late July, Sohee releases the track as a digital single—not for promotions, but just because. Not Hansol's idea, but hers, a way for her to dig her fingers into the tough center of it and tear it apart. He'd agreed, despite the creeping embarrassment that prickled the back of his neck every time he heard the song piped through speakers. Sohee deserved that much.

 

In the beginning of August, Hansol asks Taeyang out for lunch.

They sit in chairs opposite each other, and talk over fried rice and kimchi and pickled radish that makes Hansol's mouth taste sour. It's nice. Taeyang is nice, thoughtful, funny. Much better at conversation than Hansol had always assumed him to be. He tells Hansol about how he'd wanted to be a rapper, when he was in high school—had even put out a couple of mixtapes under a stage name he swears he won't ever reveal even on pain of death.

"It was awful and embarrassing," Taeyang says, laughing, one hand curled around his empty water glass. "But it was a good experience, you know? It's what made me want to pursue music."

Hansol glances at his cell phone and thinks of Byungjoo, laughing, sitting on the stairs in Hongdae and playing his guitar like nothing else mattered. Maybe, to him, nothing else did. Hansol wishes that his relationship with music were still that simple.

"And instead of pursuing music, you ended up as a sellout producer?" Hansol asks. He's only half-teasing, and maybe it's that hint of gravity in the words that makes Taeyang consider him contemplatively, head tilted like he's letting the words roll around in his mind.

"I don't think of myself as a sellout," he says, eventually. "This isn't where my fifteen-year-old self thought I'd end up, that's for sure. But I'm still making music. Music for the masses is still music, right?"

"I think all the high school hip-hop in me just curdled in protest," Hansol says.

Taeyang grins. He has a nice smile, Hansol thinks. Genuine. "Yeah, me too," he agrees. "But it's not like I don't still have that fire. I just use it for something other than spitting weak rhymes into a mic in my parents' garage, now."

"What? You mean you don't still spit weak rhymes in your parents' garage?"

"Asshole." Taeyang throws a balled-up napkin at Hansol.

Hansol laughs and throws it back, the words echoing in the back of his mind. "I think of myself as a sellout sometimes," he admits. It's the first time he's said it aloud, except for once, to Sohee, when they were both drunk after an industry party. "I wanted to be a real musician, and instead I ended up getting paid to make pop music."

"Mm." Taeyang shrugs. Hansol appreciates that there's no shred of pity in his gaze, nor his voice, when he speaks again. "To me—if it makes a difference to even one person, it's not a waste. The music we write and produce might not be our stories, but it's somebody's story. Do you know how many blogs I've seen posting reviews of Sohee's new digital, saying that this song is exactly the words they wished they'd had to say to an ex at some time or another?"

Reading netizen responses has always seemed like a bad idea to Hansol, so he avoids it as much as he can. "That's what they're saying about Gravity?" he asks.

"Hell yeah," Taeyang says. "And that's fucking important, you know? It's a pop song, but it still gave who knows how many people the words they didn't have to say something they need to say. Does it really matter whether it's label or indie, when it comes down to it? Is that the important thing? I've never thought it was."

For a long time, Hansol is quiet. 

"You're surprisingly unpretentious," he finally says. Mostly, he says it to distract from the sudden and raging tempest of thoughts inside his mind, stirred into a frenzy by Taeyang's quiet confidence. "I'm sorry it took me this long to actually talk to you."

"If you really think of yourself as a sellout, I can't say I'm all that surprised," Taeyang says. "You probably thought we were all assholes with bank accounts, huh?"

Hansol feels shame prickle and is sure it shows on his face, but Taeyang is all smiles, shaking his head. "It's no big deal," he says. "Just, you know, next time me and Sehyuk invite you to lunch, why don't you try actually talking to us instead of staring wistfully out the window the whole time?"

"Depends on the scenery," Hansol says. "No promises."

Taeyang laughs, and Hansol glances at his phone again. Thinks of the last time he'd had lunch with the both of them, the day the rains had started for real. They're nearly past, now, the monsoon season giving way to the milder, more temperate weather of August, and it's been just a little more than a month and a half since Byungjoo put his number in Hansol's phone and told him to call him when he was ready. When will he ever be ready?

"Whoever it is," Taeyang says, "call them."

Hansol looks up so sharply that he gets a crick in his neck, and he swears a little too loudly, reaching up to rub at the twinging muscle. "What?" he says.

"Call them," Taeyang repeats. "That was like the hundredth time you've looked at your phone since we sat down. If you're not checking your Kakao or your Twitter, then I can only assume you're either waiting for a call, or wanting to make one. Take initiative, my friend. Make the call."

Eyes narrowed, Hansol regards Taeyang, then regards the remains of their lunch. His intentions must read loud and clear, because Taeyang says, "I'll pay. My treat, as your sunbae. Go, go."

Outside, Hansol holds his phone in hands that shake a little more than he wishes they did, keys up the number that Byungjoo had left— _call me when you're ready._ He doesn't feel ready, but Hansol thinks he owes them both better than this.

Byungjoo's ringback tone is the chorus of some acoustic song by an indie vocalist Hansol's forgotten the name of, and Hansol listens to it two and a half times through before Byungjoo answers. "Hello?" he says, out of breath, a little like he's been laughing. Hansol had forgotten how sweet his voice sounded, even speaking. 

"Hello?" Hansol says. "I mean—hi. Byungjoo? This is—"

"Hansol?" Byungjoo says. "Wow, wow. I mean—wow. I didn't think you'd ever call."

"I had help," Hansol admits. "I probably wouldn't have, on my own. I'm pretty good at talking myself out of things."

"Oh," Byungjoo says. "But you called."

"Yeah."

A long moment of silence.

"Well… um, what's up?" Byungjoo asks. "I mean—it's just, you know. I'm at work and I pretended that I had to go to the bathroom really bad so I could answer, so…"

"You're at work?" Hansol asks. "Why are you anwering the phone at work?"

Another long silence. "Whenever it's an unknown number," Byungjoo says, delicately, "I answer it. Just in case."

"Just in case?"

Byungjoo says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes. Just in case it was Hansol, finally having worked up the nerve to pull his head out of his ass and dial the number. "When do you get off work?" he asks, the words all but tumbling out of him. "I'm in the neighborhood. I'll buy you coffee."

"Thirty minutes," Byungjoo says. He barely waits for Hansol to finish speaking, and Hansol doesn't want to get ahead of himself, but he imagines—hopes—imagines that Byungjoo feels the same way he does right now. All nerves, shaking hands and sea legs, heart pounding at the back of his throat. Jesus, he has a crush. "I'm off in thirty minutes. There's a café—um, it's nice, if you walk toward the university and take a right at the pharmacy, but before the church, it's like two buildings down. 'Kind Coffee.' Meet me there?"

"Yeah," Hansol says. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you there."

He hangs up just as Taeyang steps outside, tucking the receipt into his wallet. "Did it go well?" Taeyang asks. "Your cheeks are really pink right now."

Both of Hansol's hands fly up to cover his face. "Yes," he says. "I mean. I think? I—you go ahead, hyung. I have to meet someone." 

Taeyang grins so big Hansol worries his cheeks might split, but he doesn't press for details, for which Hansol is immensely thankful. "You got it," he says. "I'll tell Sehyuk you're taking the afternoon? I doubt he'll mind, after how hard you've been working lately."

"Thanks," Hansol says. "I owe you one." 

"Nah," Taeyang says. Hansol decides, contrary to his previous opinion of Taeyang as a rich and pretentious asshole, that Taeyang might actually be too nice for his own good. "Just take good care of whatever you've gotta take care of. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"…The day after, if all goes well," Hansol admits. 

Taeyang's parting wolf-whistle has him blushing all the way to the café.

 

The café is nice, quiet, the kind of place Hansol can easily imagine Byungjoo—notebook open, guitar case propped against the wall, leaving coffee rings on paper as he writes and erases lyric after lyric. Maybe Byungjoo is the type to write all in one mad rush, then go back and edit once it's all out on the paper—or maybe, like Hansol, writing lines is like pulling teeth, coming out only with a great deal of coaxing. Either way, Hansol thinks, he would like to read them.

He drinks half his citron tea before Byungjoo comes in, absent his guitar and seeming smaller for it. Hansol almost doesn't recognize him, both because of the lack of guitar, and because Byungjoo's hair—blond, the last time Hansol had seen it—is a warm, reddish brown now, and shorter, bangs falling over his forehead instead of sweeping down his temples.

He looks incredible. Hansol chokes on his drink.

"Hi," Byungjoo says, "oh God, don't choke, please," and pats Hansol gingerly on the back. 

Hansol, his cheeks flaming, coughs several times and takes a few deep breaths, trying to will his lungs into submission. "Hi," he eventually croaks out. "Sorry, this is so…"

"Do you want a do-over?" Byungjoo suggests. "I can go outside and walk back in, give you a second." He seems amused, though, under the concern for Hansol's respiratory system, so Hansol swallows his own mortification and shakes his head. 

"No," he says. "No, just—I'll buy you coffee. What do you want?"

Byungjoo orders an iced mocha, voices his wonder at how Hansol can drink hot drinks in the middle of muggy August. When his drink is ready, he takes it and falls into the seat opposite Hansol, all long limbs, skinny jeans and t-shirt. The sharp points of his elbows and the shape of his collarbones, barely visible above the V of his neckline. Hansol swallows hard.

"What did you want to talk about?" Byungjoo asks. "Did I leave things at your house? I thought I brought everything."

It stabs right into Hansol's solar plexus, the innocent, almost apologetic curiosity with which Byungjoo asks. Like he expects that Hansol will have called him only to say, here's your left sock, just thought I should return it. "Jesus," Hansol says. "No. No, I just—"

He just?

Hansol thinks about what Sohee had said to him. _The next person you fall for, don't make the same mistake._ Thinks about how afraid he had been—how afraid he still is to open that door, to make vulnerable the place that Sohee had left him bruised. How the sight of Byungjoo, gorgeous, brilliant, is enough to make that fear pale in comparison.

"You told me to call you when I was ready," Hansol says. What else can he say, really?

"Oh," Byungjoo says. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. "I—yeah. I guess I did, didn't I?" He flushes pink, looks down at his mocha. Both palms closed around the cup, he spins it in place once, twice. "That seemed like such a cool thing to do, at the time. Right out of a drama, right?"

"Except in a drama, it probably wouldn't have taken me nearly two months to call," Hansol says.

"No, I guess not." 

It seems strange, like this, somehow. The two of them in limbo, with a thousand things that Hansol wants to say, and none of them quite feeling right to say into this peculiar silence. Byungjoo looks up at him again, and Hansol sighs, straightens his back. "Let's do this again," he suggests, offering a hand. "Hi."

"Hi," Byungjoo says slowly. He reaches out to take Hansol's hand, and his palm is chilly from the ice in his cup.

"I'm Kim Hansol," Hansol says. "I'm a producer for a record label. I like expensive scotch and have a weakness for terrible, terrible 90's pop songs. And, apparently, for beautiful boys with guitar cases who offer me umbrellas when it's pouring outside."

Slowly, a smile spreads over Byungjoo's face. "I'm Kim Byungjoo," he says. "I'm an amateur ice cream scooper and an even more amateur guitar player. I like Welsh corgis, apple vodka, and men who make my knees go weak when they kiss me. And, apparently, producers for record labels." 

"Apple vodka? Really?" 

Byungjoo recoils, mock-offended, but he doesn't pull his hand out of Hansol's, even though the pretense of a handshake has long since faded. "You listen to terrible 90's pop songs," he says. "Don't you dare start this by insulting my taste in alcohol."

Hansol laughs, but he likes the way it sounds— _start this_ —so much that he doesn't say anything more. He just watches the way Byungjoo smiles, his eyes curving up. Wonders if he could drown in this, in how gorgeous Byungjoo is, in how little Hansol wants to run, even when he considers the possibilities. Mornings spent in bed, evenings spent drunk on cheap apple vodka. Byungjoo and his guitar, and his voice, laughing.

"I want to kiss you," he admits, aloud.

"So kiss me," Byungjoo says.

And Hansol—he leans over the table and does just that.

_Breathe deep and dive._


End file.
